


the black space

by loyaulte_me_lie



Category: Miss Saigon - Schönberg/Boublil/Maltby
Genre: Angst, Gen, Home, Recovery, Saigon, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-27
Updated: 2015-02-27
Packaged: 2018-03-15 11:45:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3445943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loyaulte_me_lie/pseuds/loyaulte_me_lie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chris goes home in 1973 after the withdrawal of American ground troops, and struggles to adjust. Based off a line from 'Why God Why.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	the black space

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, so, not much to say, really. Another oneshot. Enjoy x

He's home at last, at long, long last he's home, and his mother is greeting him at the airport gate with brisk kiss and a tight-lipped smile. The autumn seeps through the air, and as they step outside the terminal, he breathes it in deeply, letting the warm colours rush into his lungs. She doesn't talk on the way home - even now, even now that the war's supposedly over, Vietnam hangs heavy between them.

She's made up his childhood room, and as he looks around at the blue walls, the smell of muskiness and damp that no air-freshener can quite hide, she lingers in the doorway.

"I don't want to hear about any of it, understand?" He looks at her. She manages another smile, but it doesn't reach her eyes. "I'm glad you're home safely."

He feels like spitting. He would, if he wasn't so tired of it all. _She_ doesn't want to know? His own mother can't stand to be there for her only son, to listen to the silence when words won't come, to hold him when the nightmares will inevitably creep up as though he's a little boy again.

He gives a brief nod. She turns, goes. Inside himself, he is screaming, begging to be heard, begging for her not to leave him all alone. But it hasn't ever been the same. Not since Dad died and not since he turned into a murderer. And it sure as hell won't change now.

…

When he walks down the street, people's stares prick at the back of his neck. Even in civilian clothes, there's no doubt from where he's come. It's like he has SOLDIER branded in angry red letters across his forehead.

No-one talks to him about the war. Conversations hush as he passes. He can't stand this.

…

He's mowing the front lawn for his mother when suddenly BANG and there's an enemy shooting from behind the white picket fence, the bullet searing past his shoulder, and he's ducking, head slamming into the lawn-mower handle.

The pain brings him back to reality.

School-kids are laughing at him from the street, and he glares ferociously at them until they run off. Only then does he sink down onto his knees and begin to sob.

…

He can't cope. The nightmares are getting worse, the dumbed-down, sugared-up reports of what happened are quickly forgotten about. No-one here knew what it was like out there, no-one has seen the burning fields, the interrogations, the way people cowered before their guns, the look in a person's eyes right before your bullet embedded itself between their ribs, no-one knows, no-one carries it the way he does, and they all expect him just to pick up life where he'd left it five years ago, to sink back into obliviousness with the knowledge of just-how-cruel humans can be to each other.

He knows he'll go mad if he's stuck here, alone in his head for the rest of his life. So when he phones his old CO and it just so happens that there's a post going - last man blown to bits by the Viet Cong - he grabs it in both hands.

…

"Mom..." he asks over dinner one night, breaking the silence that is only ever punctuated by frivolous small-talk.

"Yes?" She doesn't look up from her casserole.

"I'm going back."

"What?"

"I'm going back. To Saigon. There's a post for me there."

"But I just got you home, Chris, why would you...you've got your whole life ahead of you here! You're applying for all those jobs and..."

"Mom, I can't be here." His voice cracks. "I just can't."

"Please don't, please, I don't know what I'd do if you died!"

"I am dead, Mom. I'm dead inside. I have to go back."

She looks at him, and for once, for the first time, there are tears in her eyes like pearls. Maybe she does care, he thinks quietly to himself. Then she takes a deep breath, and nods. "Okay, then."

"Okay," he says, returning his attention to his plate. They don't speak another word all evening.

…

When he steps back down into Saigon, the weight off his chest is a relief. No more pretending, no more lies, no more pitying glances from well-meaning people who can’t understand what he's been through.

The city lights, the burnt out buildings, the tsk-tsk-tsk of helicopter blades make him feel alive. Finally, he's back doing something, he has a purpose. He’s not wasting away his life because he can't figure out where the hell he goes when the war is over. And for now, that’s all he needs.


End file.
